The Dead by Philip Levine

A good man is seized by the policeand spirited away. Months latersomeone brags that he shot him oncethrough the back of the headwith a Walther 7.65, and his lifeended just there. Those who lovedhim go on searching the cafésin the Barrio Chino or the barsnear the harbor. A comrade swearshe saw him at a distance buyingtwo kilos of oranges in the marketof San Jose and called out, "Andres,Andres," but instead of turningto a man he'd known since child-hood and opening his great armswide, he scurried off, the orangestumbling out of the damp sack, oneafter another, a short bright trailleft on the sidewalk to say,Farewell! Farewell to what? I ask.I asked then and I ask now. I firstheard the story fifty years ago;it became part of the mythology Ihauled with me from one graveyardto another, this belief in the powerof my yearning. The dead are every-

where, crowding the narrow streetsthat jut out from the wide boulevardon which we take our morning walk.They stand in the cold shadowsof men and women come to sellthemselves to anyone, they stridealong beside me and stop when Istop to admire the bright garlandsor the little pyramids of fruit,they reach a hand out to givemoney or to take change, they say"Good morning" or "Thank you," theyturn with me and retrace my stepsback to the bare little room I'vecome to call home. Patiently,they stand beside me staring outover the soiled roofs of the worlduntil the light fades and we areall one or no one. They ask forso little, a prayer now and then,a toast to their health which isour health, a few lies no one readsincised on a dull plaque betweena pharmacy and a sports store,the least little daily miracle.